Just a Dream
by FireyFreedom
Summary: It was just a dream.  Sherlock could never give John what he needed, couldn't try hard enough.  He was after all a sociopath


He'd promised. Sherlock had promised to try. After the first bruising, demanding, kiss, he'd promised to try for John.

John hated watching Sherlock loose himself. Whether it was in drugs or a case that threatened to kill them both, Sherlock would retreat from the outside world leaving John cold and lonely and absolutely hating himself.

John wasn't lying when he said he'd do anything for Sherlock. God help him, he would kill for Sherlock, and there was nothing John could do to stop himself. Sherlock was a compulsion, protecting him, fighting for him, it was in John's blood, in his brain, his body wasn't ever under the command of the rational part of his mind.

When living with the most observant man on earth, John always worried that he'd said too much, that he would reveal just how much he worked for those stolen moments, when it was just for the two of them.

Next to Sherlock, no one ever noticed John. So John always sat back and watched, waiting with his hand on his gun for Sherlock to get himself into trouble.

Who was he kidding? Always running after Sherlock, trying to emulate the man's deductions, anything to keep Sherlock from getting bored, keep himself close to the younger man.

Sherlock, who was so brilliant at picking up every other subtle hint, never seemed to notice John's looks. John wondered if it would go on like this forever, him always running after Sherlock, and Sherlock always lost to the world.

And then there was that one day, one moment. John was tired, so tired, slouching in the arm chair. Sherlock was playing his violin hauntingly, and sleep pressed closer. John woke up some time later to find himself laying on the sofa, covered with a blanket, the violin still playing a lullaby. Brown eyes met blue, and the music trailed off.

John hurt, his heart constricted with every beat, but still he protected Sherlock. Every moment attempting to ensure that the man didn't make the wrong enemy and end up dead. He felt like an idiot, a puppy dog idiot, but he couldn't help it. It felt like Sherlock was a lightning rod, and John a bolt of lightning, although John was more the lightning rod, never as flashy as Sherlock. But John didn't attract anyone.

How could Sherlock not see the stares, the ones John gave him the burned? How could he not catch on to the many aborted attempts to tell him? The words John could never get past his lips.

Almost, so close John had come to telling Sherlock, only to have to other man distracted by a dead body. John went out and got very, very drunk that night.

John was drunk, and laying in his bed (when the hell had he gotten there?). It was silent in 221B, except for the creak of his door opening. John opened blood shot eyes, only to start in shock at seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway to his room.  
>"Want company?"<br>Now John was sure he was dreaming, the rough tone to Sherlock's voice, and the raw need in those ice blue eyes could only come from his imagination. Sherlock prowled over to the bed, pulling on John's shirt until their two lips met. Fire and ice danced along John's spin, as slender hands danced under his shirt.  
>He woke, gasping, hard and needy, only to find himself asleep at the bar. He got up and made his way unsteadily home.<p>

Just a dream, his mind told him, and his body told him how much it wanted, no NEEDED for it to be real.

John had no qualms about killing, especially if it saved lives. He wasn't a religious man, and while he had a clear cut conscious, Sherlock always seemed to make him forget it. Sherlock made him forget a lot of things.

He fretted that he might have said something while drunk, given away a clue for the mastermind to detect, but no, Sherlock remained oblivious, pulling John along wherever he went.

John refused to admit, even to himself, that it wasn't just lust, or fascination. He needed to see Sherlock become human, needed to know he felt: because John needed to see Sherlock lose his control.

But no matter how many promises were whispered through kisses, no matter how often the two men found themselves together in bed, it was still just a dream. Sherlock could not feel, could not try, could not give John what he needed.


End file.
